


Like Chewing on Pearls

by GlitterAndDoom



Series: Rhinestones and Microphones [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Inanimate Object, Masturbation, Other, Pervertibles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterAndDoom/pseuds/GlitterAndDoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the first time the thought had flashed across his mind, nor the second, nor the third. Then, the microphone breaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Chewing on Pearls

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Like Chewing on Pearls  
>  **Rating:** NSFW  
>  **Pairing:** Adam Lambert/Microphone  
>  **Warnings:** Inappropriate usage of a broken microphone  
>  **Author's Notes:** Written for the **glam_kink** prompt - _Adam/microphone: He fondles it every night on stage. One night, he begins to think about its other uses._  
>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, and this stuff is all lies.
> 
> _[Originally posted on](http://community.livejournal.com/glam_kink/664.html?thread=107672#t107672) **glam_kink**_

He wasn't lying when he strutted around like nothing about sex made his cheeks flush with embarrassment, like he owned the fuck out of his sensuality, and it was never a secret that performing turned him on, but this? Oh _God_ , this made even _him_ squirm, made his insides twist and his face grow hot, even as his cock went hard. Not even Adam's closest confidants knew about this, about the flicker in the back of his mind whenever he shamelessly ground his erection against a firm metal stand, about what it really meant inside when he curved his long fingers around the hard length of a microphone and stroked it like a lover's cock.

It wasn't the first time the thought had flashed across his mind, nor the second, nor the third. It was a bad idea from the beginning—he also wasn't lying when he said he was a bit vanilla or claimed he liked the top. Oh, he had experience with vaguely similar things—he'd been fucked quite a lot, thank you very much, and he'd used his fair share of toys over the years, but this was too different, too wrong. The shape was almost right, but in practice, too awkward, and the one he had now was adorned with rhinestones. But it never did leave his mind, and as the tour went on, wearing him down, that familiar shape became more and more interesting.

Late in the tour, the mic stopped working in the middle of "Music Again." The techs replaced it quickly, and afterward, they declared it a lost cause. Adam claimed it for his own, then regretted it almost instantly and hid it deep within his belongings, unable to look at it without blushing. None of the others noticed his sudden attack of prudishness; if they had, he would've gotten rid of it. He would never hear the end of it if word got around that Adam Fucking Lambert had a different sort of problem with microphones.

It didn't help that he was horny as hell, that each night he spent getting wilder and wilder with Tommy onstage was taking its toll in private. Whenever he went out to have fun, it was splashed all over the internet later, or the boy left him hopelessly unsatisfied, or both, and he imagined it would be worse to see "I topped Adam Lambert" spread all over the place. So he spent most nights alone, whether on the road or in yet another cookie cutter hotel room, touching only himself, his hands bringing relief for the body but not for the mind. He needed something else, something different.

As he mechanically dug through his bag for lube, his fingers brushed against something else, something familiar. He jerked his hand back, as if he'd been burned, and searched elsewhere for the small tube, but he could still see _it_ , could still see the gems on the microphone sparkling in the dim light, teasing him. He glanced toward the door to be certain it was locked, then blocked it with a chair, just to be sure.

 _No one_ was going to interrupt him tonight.

He took his time, laying his supplies reverently on the bed, ignoring the insistent urgency that consumed him like a fever. His hands shook as he let go of the microphone, and his stomach jumped and his cock twitched, his body alight with nervous anticipation and desire. He took his time, couldn't bring himself to be fast as he pulled his shirt over his head, letting his fingertips skim over his skin before he trailed them more deliberately across his belly and up to linger on his chest, enjoying the intense jolts that shot through him as he toyed with his nipples 'til the metal bars through them felt almost white hot. His eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a moan and bucked against the air. He almost could have come just from that, from the press of tight friction in his jeans and the touch of his fingers on his sensitive nipples and the overwhelming anticipation, but it wasn't what he needed, wasn't _enough_ , so he slid his hands down and freed his desperate cock, let his jeans hit the floor and crawled onto the bed.

He sprawled across the cool sheets, and for a brief moment, the relief of a soft bed beneath him felt almost as good as hands on his lust-hot skin, until he slicked his fingers with lube and wrapped them tight around his cock. He arched into his touch as he stroked his length, legs spread wide, his hand moving with maddening slowness as the sweat beaded on his skin, as his hair tangled against the pillows, as his breaths turned ragged and his heart grew quick in his chest, as he let out quiet little moans as he pictured what came next and forced his hand away from his cock, tried not to let his impatience get the best of him as he covered his fingers in more lube and slipped the first inside.

He moved his finger gently, getting the tight muscles used to the presence, then slid in a second, a third, a fourth, all wet with lube and so close to enough as he moved them, deliberately brushing against that place inside, until finally, when he'd nearly reached the edge of reason, he fumbled for the microphone and carefully, slowly pushed it _in_.

His other hand clutched the sheets, and oh _God_ , oh _fuck_ , it was _different_ , so, so different from the sleek, familiar shape of a cock or a toy, so, so different from anything else. It was cold and unyielding, not quite rough but not smooth at all, and so perfect in its difference, so much like he'd imagined but so far off. His body burned around it, stretched and painful and tearing apart, but oh _God_ , beneath the hurt, as the electric burn died away...

He threw his head back and moaned, and it was too much, too much. He froze and tried to will time to stop. If he moved, if he breathed, if he _thought_ , it would all be over, and he wanted it to last, wanted to drown in the intense pleasurepain consuming his nerves and his blood and his brain. His world stood on a razor blade's edge of too much, too much, too fucking much, but not enough, either, and he dared to push the microphone deeper, dared to pull it out again, moved it in and out until he was fucking himself on it, and it was just what he'd tried not to imagine, but _more_ , so much more, so real and so overwhelming it stole his needed breaths and consumed his every cell.

And then he loosened his tight grip on the sheets and wrapped his free and shaking hand around his cock. "Oh, _fuck!_ " he breathed, and he had to slow down again until he could take it no longer, until the slow pace became torture and he needed more, faster, harder, needed both hands moving, and he pulled the mic out one last time, let it fall from his nerveless fingers as the world turned to blinding white and he came apart.

He fell back against the sheets and laid there, still and boneless, relearning how to breathe. For the first time in months, nothing crossed his mind, and he lingered in the blissed-out peace as he drifted down from the high.

"Wow," he said, when he could finally think again. " _Wow_."

As soon as he spoke, the spell was broken. With a reluctant groan, he heaved himself off the bed, and he staggered to the bathroom to clean himself. He'd be sore in the morning, but it was worth it. He felt more weightless than he had in such a long time, even as reality started creeping back in and he remembered all the reasons why he shouldn't have done it, though none of them seemed quite as important as they had before.

Still, when he cleared away the mess and climbed into bed, he told himself never again, though he'd never been good at denying himself pleasure.

So he didn't throw the mic away.


End file.
